Country Heaven (2 page)

“Your opinion.”

The man only scratched his fat belly with his other hand. “You’re a good–for–nothing son of a bitch, and you don’t deserve to be here.”

The words echoed in Rye’s head, but this time it was his mama’s voice he heard. The towering inferno of rage erupted inside him, spewing like a dormant volcano that had just come awake after sleeping for years. He shoved the man out of his way, and the man fell to the side and started howling.

Rye immediately reached to help him up, but the guy jerked away and yelled, “He hit me! Rye Crenshaw hit me.”

Of course, a crowd gathered at the noise, the man yelling about how violent Rye had been. How he wasn’t fit to be around children. And wouldn’t you know it, a few of the disadvantaged children the association had brought for the event teared up and cried like in some frickin’ Dickens novel.

Camera phones flashed everywhere.

He was screwed.

Striding out of the country club, hounded by the man’s shouts, he waited for his truck to come around to the valet stand and called his lawyer on the way home to tell him what had happened so he could call the police and give Rye’s account. He’d bet the farm the man was going to press charges. Good God, the whole rigmarole made his head swim.

By the time he made it home to Dare River, Twitter had exploded with pictures of the fat man writhing on the floor, Rye standing over him looking dark and foreboding. And then there were the accusations.

Rye Crenshaw Punches Innocent Man at a Charity Event

Rye Crenshaw Mean to Children.

Rye Crenshaw Violent Around Kids.

He threw his phone against the wall of the den, the crack of it breaking doing nothing to comfort him. Georgia would be wild to talk to him, as would the rest of his staff, but he couldn’t handle that now. Grabbing a bottle of Wild Turkey, he headed out to the river and stood by the bank. But the usual delight he took at seeing the water turn to diamonds in the light was gone.

His reputation had just taken a devastating blow. He might cultivate a bad–boy image, but what was being said in the media would shock his fans. And it wouldn’t matter if the police didn’t press charges. Like the old phrase went: a picture is worth a thousand words.

Even he knew that.

And just as he was starting his tour at the end of the month.

His career could be in trouble, but all he could think about was that his baby sister, his precious heart, was lost to him.

He hung his head and sank to his knees by the river.

Daily specials make a real man’s day.
Gimme that fresh food.
Gimme that cooking crea–tiv–ity.
Let me drink that sweet, sweet tea.
Let me savor what you have in store for me.
Serve me up butter–dotted cornbread,
With some juicy, tangy ribs,
And a side of collard greens,
Finish me off with a coconut cream cake as tall as weeds.
Sate me well.
Make ‘em all just like my Granny,
You steamin’ hot, apron–clad woman,
And I’ll surely make you mine.

Rye Crenshaw’s Top Twenty Hit, “Daily Specials”

Chapter 1

Over a month later…

T
he run–down appearance of Diner Heaven just outside Lawrence, Kansas, didn’t concern Rye. Everyone knew diners were hidden food gems.

Through a grime–encrusted window, he could see a lone redheaded waitress bustling around under harsh fluorescent lights, wiping down white countertops. That the diner looked to be empty was a bonus. He wouldn’t have to contend with any of his country music fans and their worried glances, pinched mouths, or flat–out nosy questions about whether he’d
plumb lost his mind
at the charity event on May Day. The man whom Rye had shoved, a wealthy businessman, had pressed charges for assault and blabbed to anyone who would listen about how Rye didn’t have family values and was too wild to be around “decent people.”

He’d had to go to the downtown police precinct for questioning, and there were pictures all over the media of him alongside the men in blue. Few cared that the police hadn’t charged him, finding little evidence and observing the man had been drunk.

Tonight, he’d fled the stage after his concert and was immediately attacked by a rabid female fan and swarmed by journalists with cameras who asked him rude questions while shoving cameras in his face. Over a month after
The Incident
, they were still asking him if he had anger management issues, if he needed counseling, and whether he hated kids and families.

So here he was, craving a little comfort food and peace since he’d recently fired his tour cook—another disaster he didn’t want to think about. And he was crammed into a beat–up muscle car, two decades old if it was a day, that he’d borrowed from a member of their local crew, wearing a ball cap instead of his black Stetson. Trying to be all
incognito–like.

No one ever saw him without his cowboy hat, so he should be able to fly beneath the radar. Plus he met the restaurant’s high standards. He had on shoes
and
a shirt. Bully for him.

The sooner he got inside, the sooner he could get back to the tour bus and start the drive to the next concert stop. He slammed the car door, rubbing the bite mark on his neck from the overzealous fan. Darn kids read too many vampire books these days. A cat the color of his beloved Oreo cookies shot past him.

And then he saw the striped tail.

He lunged for the car, but it was too late. A menacing hiss punctuated the silent parking lot, and a filmy spray misted his clothes. He gagged at the rotten smell and pinched his nose.

Rye knew Kansas had a reputation for being rural, but seriously. His stomach growled. God, he was rank, but he was
star–ving!
Grateful the wind wasn’t behind him, he prayed the waitress would have seasonal allergies and a plugged nose.

He pulled the cap lower, hoping he could pass for an innocent college student with his jeans and black T–shirt. He snorted. Innocent he wasn’t.

The door chimed when he eased it open, and he nudged the doorstop down with his foot. Maybe fresh air would help. The air conditioner blasted more of a tepid tropical breeze than a meat–locker chill anyway. He sighed, even over
eau de skunk,
he could pick up the heavenly odors of garlic, onions, and grilled meat.

The middle–aged waitress gave him a once–over like a bad private investigator keeping tabs on her target. She was wearing a gold uniform with a monogram of clouds and a halo under her name tag. Myra. He nodded a greeting and shuffled forward. “I’m just gonna head to the men’s room to see if I can wash off this skunk’s stink. It got me in the parking lot.”

Her nose twitched, and then her face scrunched up. “Oh, good heavens!” She bustled over, pressing a white lace handkerchief to her tired face like he had cholera or something. “That darn thing. We’ve had two customers sprayed this week. Bill can’t catch it, and I hate to see it shot. I watched Pepé Le Pew growing up.”

A cartoon was stopping her from getting rid of it? Well, didn’t that beat all?

“Don’t bother to try washing it off. It won’t help,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. God, he must be the unluckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

“It
sure
is rank.” She shifted on her feet, the handkerchief morphing like a sock puppet as she breathed through it. “Umm… We were about ready to close. Our cook’s cleaning the grill.” Her eyes darted to the kitchen.

Her voice had the flat, articulate cadence of a TV anchorperson. People in the Midwest teased him about his slow drawl, but he was simply too lazy to finish pronouncing the end of most words. He hoped he could tone down the Southern in his voice tonight, though. The last thing he needed was for this situation to end up in the tabloids.

“I’m sorry to put you out, but I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t starving. I couldn’t get here any earlier.” He kept his head down, looking at her white shoes. Her right shoelace was untied.

“All right, but only because our skunk got you.”

Whew. “Wonderful. What do you recommend, Myra?” Rye eased into a cracked fake red leather booth.

“Why don’t I see what our cook can whip up for you? Tory’s awfully inventive.” She bit her lip as her nose wrinkled. “She’d be more inclined if you smelled better. We used Febreze on the last person. It works as good as tomato juice and isn’t as messy. Do you mind?”

Might as well give it a try. “Sure. Go ahead.”

She disappeared around the counter, and then popped back up with a blue bottle. He’d been sprayed with a few things in his life, but this was new. The things a guy did for a good meal. He stood up and forced a smile as she edged toward him slowly, like the smell might be contagious. She pinched her nose and went to work, the handle cranking. Mist filled the air, making him cough. She was thorough, he’d give her that. Now Rye was covered in Febreze
and
skunk. Things couldn’t be peachier. He’d have to burn the clothes.

Myra’s eyes were watering, so at least he wasn’t the only one suffering. Setting the bottle down, she flexed her hand. “That’s better. Amazing what this stuff can do. I keep it around the house. Wait, I got some on your face.” She took her handkerchief and wiped his cheek like he was a kid. He jerked his head back, his eyes meeting hers for the first time.

Her own narrowed and then popped open as wide as the silver dollars his granddaddy used to give him for Christmas. “My God! I’d know those long–lashed eyes anywhere.” Her pale, heart–shaped face transformed. “You’re Rye Crenshaw! You had a concert tonight. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t find anyone to cover my shift. There were some tickets available last minute because of what happened last month.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Rye fought back a growl. Like he didn’t know some of his more conservative fans thought he’d crossed the line and were dumping their tickets.

“I’m sorry. I know I screwed up,” he muttered.

Hadn’t he practiced saying the words every morning since
The Incident
? Georgia, his manager, had written them in bold red letters on yellow legal paper and taped it to his bathroom mirror in the tour bus. They’d made an official announcement about the drunken man harassing him, but the media kept running those pictures of the disadvantaged kids crying over and over again. So, he kept apologizing—even though it burned his ass each and every time.

Myra lifted the blue bottle in her hand. “This would…ah, make a funny commercial. Maybe you could become a Febreze spokesperson.” She shrugged. “It would be a family item. Might help restore your reputation.”

Like hell. He and Georgia hadn’t figured out how to turn the tide of negative press, but he doubted an air freshener endorsement would do it. If Corona, a brand that suited his bad boy image to a T, had decided he was too much of a liability, why would some hygiene–concerned wife and mother buy this Febreze stuff because of him?

“I’ll mention it to my manager.” He lied to be polite.

His stomach gave a hungry gurgle.

She looked at his belly like there was a monster about ready to break out. “I’ll get Tory.” She scurried off toward the swinging kitchen door, her sensible shoes squeaking with each step.

He took a seat again.

A woman with jet black hair peered through the glass hole in the door just before Myra sailed into the kitchen. He caught whispers of heated conversation and then the door slammed open, smacking the wall, and a petite woman charged toward him with a hand towel over her nose. She had on faded jeans with a hole in the knee and a smudged white apron over a red T–shirt. Her big eyes peeked out at him from under a messy pageboy haircut.

“We close at midnight, and it’s…” She lifted her wrist to look at her watch. “Exactly seven minutes to—not enough time to make you something. I don’t care if you’re that infamous singer everyone’s talking about or what. I don’t even listen to country.” She studied him for a moment. “You don’t look anything like your picture.”

Rye’s mouth lifted at the corners. “That was the idea. Look, I’m sorry you’re about ready to close. Tonight hasn’t been a party for me either.” He lifted the damp, Febrezed T–shirt clinging to his chest, hating the flowery, skunky smell of it. “I didn’t do anything to your skunk.” He dug out his wallet and thumbed through it. “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars to stay open and feed me.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and she put her hands on her slim hips. “You think throwing your money around here will get you a meal?” Her gaze zeroed in on the red mark on his neck.

He didn’t cover it with his palm like some embarrassed teenager, but defending himself seemed a good idea. “Some fan decided to make a spontaneous audition for Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
after tonight’s concert. Sunk her teeth into my neck before I knew what hit me.”

Stories made people comfortable, so he pretended he was giving an interview. He’d charm the pants off Barbara Walters to get a meal tonight.

“Security went crazy, dragging the woman away kicking and screaming. Luckily she didn’t break the skin, or I’d have to worry about rabies and communicable diseases. Can you imagine? After that, I burned rubber and came here. According to Yelp, you’re the best diner in town. Over a hundred reviews with a 4.5 rating. Impressive.”

She didn’t look amused—or like she believed him for a second. He did have a reputation with the ladies, after all.

“Nevertheless, it’s late, and I’m tired. I’ll need more incentive than that.”

Myra, who had trailed out after the spunky chef, gasped. “Tory! What has gotten into you?”

He couldn’t contain the grin. He wasn’t often treated poorly by people—present scandal aside—so she was a welcome change. Fame had a way of making people kiss his ass faster than he could say dandy. He settled back into the booth, which was about as uncomfortable as stadium bleachers.